


By Any Other Name

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abstinence, Anal Sex, Baby Names, Basically Greg turns Mycroft on, Bed Rest, Chubby Greg turns Mycroft on, Honeymoon, M/M, Mpreg, Mycroft POV, Pregnant Greg turns Mycroft on, love and care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14323161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Mycroft finds caring for his fiancé Gregory during his enforced bed rest is sometimes a more difficult task than others. Nine months of boredom, love, care, food cravings and squabbles over baby names. Oh, and mildly sexy times.Luckily they have a honeymoon to look forward to...assuming they make it that long.





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> My first mpreg. Not really my scene, but this idea grabbed me so I decided to go with it. Written for #Soft Smut Sunday (Tumblr is responsible once more), this is perhaps a bit long...somehow it ended up just over 10k words?!

          “Myc? Myyyc?” The not-so-dulcet sounds of his fiancé’s bellow, er, _call_ , made Mycroft’s already perfectly aligned spine stiffen in an annoyance which he quickly buried. He loved Gregory, truly, and he was more than happy to fetch and carry for him at this special time, but ye gods, must the man shout? They had mobile phones, as well as an intercom system in the house—the house which was not so immense that shouting needed to be done at quite such a headache-increasing level.

          “Yes, my dear?” Mycroft asked, through the intercom. He had moved the unit to Gregory’s side of the bed early on, to eliminate him having to rise and cross the room whenever he needed anything.

          “Oh, hey. Myc, love, are there any strawberries left?”

          Mycroft stopped scooping up raspberry gelato and gripped the edge of the counter, “NO, er, no, my dear. Cook used the last of them in your waffles this morning.”

          “Oh…gosh, those were really good waffles. Are any of them left? Or any of the bananas she sliced on top? A banana sounds a treat.”

          “Sadly, no.” Mycroft cleared his throat, “Did you still want the gelato, or…”

          “Yeah! Do we have any fruit to go with it?” Gregory’s voice was cheerful, “It’s important to eat lots of food with folic acid right now.”

          “I can bring you up some kale,” Mycroft said a trifle waspishly.

          “What’s that, love?”

          “I said right you are. Perhaps we have some melon, will that do?”

          “I suppose.” The sigh which accompanied this was gusty and exaggerated, and Mycroft couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. He’d known, going into the relationship four years ago that Gregory Lestrade was an unrepentant drama queen.

          “Consider it done,” Mycroft finished filling the bowls and put away the gelato, rinsed the ice cream scoop and put the bowls, napkins and spoons on a tray, adding the dish of cantaloupe slices and—because by week eleven he knew what to expect—a glass of unsweetened soy milk and a straw.

          The journey up the stairs to the first floor was rather slow, lest he spill, and Mycroft was jarringly aware of his raging headache. It had been a beast of a day, the Americans were idiots, the PM was an idiot—in fact all of the Government were but two points away from certified morons, Sherlock had been obstreperous, Anthea was out with a head cold, and all Mycroft wanted was to shower, put on his pyjamas and crawl into bed next to his pregnant fiancé and doze while the television droned in the background. However, with Gregory on enforced bedrest, and the staff off in the evenings, Mycroft found himself with an entire host of duties at his feet.

          No, not duties…that sounded far too mean-spirited and institutional, neither of which he felt toward Gregory. But it was undeniable that the demands upon his time did not cease once he shut the door of his—their—home behind him in the evenings. Nudging open the door, Mycroft summoned a smile, which bloomed into sincerity when Gregory looked up, beaming at him. “Here you are, Gregory,” Mycroft said, setting the tray down on his bedside table and passing over the glass and straw.

          “Oooh, soy milk, just the ticket!” Gregory took a long drink through his crazy straw and smiled happily at Mycroft, “You always know just what I need, love.” Setting the glass on his bedside table, Gregory patted the mattress, “Let that wait for just a minute, alright? Come here and give me a kiss—you were gone far too long, I missed you.” Mycroft melted, all too happy to abandon the tray and crawl into bed so he could lean over and kiss Gregory. “None of that now,” Gregory chided, pulling on him, “C’mere and give us a real kiss, gorgeous.”

          “Gregory, the baby—” Mycroft objected.

          Gregory’s eyes shone at him sweetly, “Don’t you worry, our little raspberry isn’t going to be squished by having their papa sit on my lap.” He locked his arms around Mycroft’s waist, and fluttered his lashes up at him, “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cuddle.”

          More than happy to oblige, Mycroft still exercised caution in leaning against Gregory. He wound his arms around him and they shared a slow, sweet kiss. “Our child is no longer so small, darling,” Mycroft said in the hushed voice he found himself slipping into when discussing their baby; he smoothed a hand over Gregory’s stomach, “Now at this stage the foetus is approximately the size of a fig.”

          Gregory kissed his neck, “Aw…yeah? Well, baby fig is just fine…it’s important to demonstrate affection and care in front of your children, the books all say so.” He nodded wisely at the already well-read childcare books stacked next to his side of the bed.

          Mycroft laughed silently and kissed the side of his neck, nuzzling under Gregory’s ear, smiling at the shivers he unleashed, “Perhaps we needn’t worry until our child is old enough to observe the world…and out in it?”

          “Practice,” Gregory said, fingers slipping his buttons free with practice and sliding inside the placket of Mycroft’s shirt, stroking his chest. “’s how we know we’re doing it right.”

          “I support that theory one hundred percent,” Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes in bliss as Gregory’s fingers sought out his nipple.

          “Myc…”

          “Hmm?”

          “Can you reach one of the bowls of gelato?”

          “What?” Mycroft’s eyes snapped open and he sat up from his sprawl, “You’re thinking of food at this particular moment?”

          “I’m always thinking of food,” Gregory admitted, grinning, “but actually I thought I could lick gelato off your nipples while you tell me about your day.” He ducked his head to nip at the body part in question, “And of course there’s your adorable belly button to consider…and the sexy line of your hip…mmm…”

          “I…have no objection to that plan.” Mycroft would have died before letting anyone but his lover witness the speed and enthusiasm with which he moved. Dignity, he had found, was not a particular asset when it came to matters of sex. Luckily he had also discovered that he was capable of uninhibited sexual hijinks when a certain silver fox was involved…and gelato, he was delighted to discover, was a stimulating sex aid.

 

******

 

          “So I was thinking about names again today,” Gregory said, as Mycroft helped him carefully step into the shower. Gone were the days of lazing together in the extra-long, extra-deep bath tub which Mycroft had had installed as a surprise for their second anniversary. It wasn’t safe for the foetus to be subjected to high temperatures, so they could no longer take baths together, but shared showers were nearly as satisfying.

          Mycroft paused, one foot poised to step into the shower. The cheerful anti-slip ducks he’d adhered to the shower floor to prevent his increasingly ungainly love from slipping seemed to mock him. “Ah. Oh. Er…were you?” The subject of names had been a tricky one; each perfectly lovely and classic name which Mycroft suggested had been objected to as “stupidly posh and sure to get the kidlet’s arse kicked.” Gregory, on the other hand, had offered ridiculous choices such as Sunshine, Han (for Solo), and Gilles (apparently for the current Arsenal scout, as if that would hold any sway whatsoever for Mycroft agreeing).

          “But darling…” He joined Gregory in the shower stall and closed the door, reaching for the jar of brown sugar and orange peel body scrub. If he concentrated extra hard on scooping out exactly the right amount…well, he could only hope dear Gregory didn’t notice, “I thought we agreed upon Eugenie Victoria if it was a girl, and Greyson Alexander if it was a boy.”

          “I know,” Gregory admitted, reaching for the shampoo to begin washing Mycroft’s hair as Mycroft smoothed the scrub over Gregory’s shoulders and chest, “But with the scan tomorrow we’ll find out for sure what our wee carrot is going to be.”

          The urge to roll his eyes was strong; Mycroft resisted with manly restraint. “Gregory, must you continue to liken our future off-spring to foodstuffs?”

          The grin he received was unrepentant, though not as bright as usual, “Yes.” He rubbed at his little bump, staring almost sadly at his hand making soothing circles, “makes me feel close to the nipper, what can I say?”

          “You can say that tomorrow we shall henceforth refer to the ‘little nipper’ as either Eugenie or Greyson.”

          “Myc, please, I know I said I was okay with Greyson, but…” Gregory trailed off, biting his lip. His earnest gaze slipped away from Mycroft’s, and he felt a shaft of worry. Gregory was refreshingly—sometimes appallingly—direct. What could be worrying his darling?

          “What is it, Gregory?” Mycroft grimaced at his oily, gritty hands, but nonetheless cupped that heartbreakingly sharp jawline in one hand, tilting Gregory’s face back towards him. “Please tell me what’s troubling you?” As his fiancé complied, Mycroft read the flash of discomfort in his face, recalled that today was the day Gregory was to have attended a small party at NSY to celebrate Sergeant Donovan’s advancement to Detective Inspector, and knew with certainty that something had occurred there to upset him. He had had his doubts about Gregory leaving the house, but it had been so terribly important to him to be present for the celebration in honour of his loyal Sergeant, and Dr Hasbani had assured them that a small venture out would be fine, as long as he didn’t overdo it, and returned home to rest.

          Mycroft had promised to be there, but as so often happened—and as it felt increasingly these days, was happening at an increased rate—he had been unavoidably delayed by work. The falsely cheerful note of assurance in Gregory’s voice when they spoke on the phone had been upsetting, but Mycroft had fooled himself into thinking that his beloved was fine with him missing the event. It was not as if his presence would have enhanced the celebration, although Sergeant Donovan had been quietly supportive of their union from the beginning, and was nowhere near the ignorant harridan his brother likened her to.

          “It’s just…” Gregory had stopped washing Mycroft’s hair, and he squeezed his foamy hands together, blinking against the spray which shot over Mycroft’s shoulder, from one of the multi-directional showerheads. Without breaking eye contact, Mycroft reached back and adjusted it, earning himself a small smile. “Thanks, love.”

          “What is it, Gregory?”

          “Greyson sounds too much like ‘Gregson.’” His usually good-natured tone was flat. He was back to avoiding Mycroft’s eyes again.

          “Ah, and did you perhaps run into DI Gregson whilst you were at the Yard?”

          Gregory nodded, “Might have done.” He blinked carefully, pulling in a wobbly breath, and a tear slipped free, rapidly followed by another.

          Heart aching with love and protective instincts which were shouting, Mycroft pulled him close, “Did something happen? Did he say something to upset you?” The twitch was small, but perceptible, at least to a Holmes. “And what, pray tell,” Mycroft said in a dangerous tone, “Did Tobias Gregson say to so upset my pregnant fiancé?”

          “It wasn’t much worse than his usual shite, but I guess I let it get to me.” Gregory sniffled, rubbing his dripping nose on Mycroft’s shoulder, “Pregnancy hormones, God, I keep crying over nothing.”

          Mycroft smiled as Gregory’s arms hugged him around the waist, although his expression, hidden by their embrace, was grim as he thought of the foul-natured idiot who had never warmed to Gregory, but whom up until now had been fairly toothless in his ability to wound. “You’re allowed a cry in the shower if you need, my love,” he murmured soothingly, rubbing Gregory’s back. He angled them so that the spray rinsed his hands, wanting nothing rough to startle his lover. “Now please tell me what he said.”

          It came out haltingly, bigoted nonsense about male pregnancy, a load of abuse about homosexuals, and a breathtakingly cruel remark about the likelihood of a man Gregory’s age actually carrying to term. “Our baby,” Gregory wept, shaking in Mycroft’s arms, “he-he said it so _casually_ , Myc, as if I wouldn’t be devastated if that happened.”

          _I will_ end _him_ , Mycroft though viciously, rocking Gregory and shushing soothing nonsense in his ear. _I don’t care who he is related to, the hideous little toad._ “I’m so sorry you had to endure his abuse, sweetheart,” Mycroft said softly, pulling away and kissing the tears which salted Gregory’s cheeks, nuzzling him gently with his nose, “you’re not going to have to worry about that…Dr Hasbani is the best in her field, and she’s been very pleased with your progress and the baby’s health, right?”

          Gregory inhaled snottily and nodded, looking a tiny bit less worried, although tension still sang in his frame, and unhappiness lurked in the depths of his usually merry brown eyes. Mycroft kissed him softly, coaxing him to relax with the stroke of his tongue, as he let his hands roam up and down Gregory’s back, caressing him, gentling him. “Did he say something else?”

          The hands restlessly gripping his hips shook minutely, and Gregory avoided eye contact by pressing his forehead hard against Mycroft’s shoulder, “He…said a load of nonsense, really.”

          “Tell me, please, Gregory.” Mycroft remained calm with difficulty. He didn’t want to further upset Gregory, who needed calm and rest, but he needed to lance the poison to allow his lover’s gentle soul to heal. Nothing must be allowed to upset him during this time. A child at their age was a miracle, and one Mycroft was determined to protect. “I cannot help you if you won’t tell me.”

          “It was—he,” Gregory ground his forehead into Mycroft’s shoulder, pressing rather painfully on the brachial nerve. “Might have said that no matter whether I lost the baby or not, I’d never h-hang onto a man like y—” a harsh, breaking sob cut off the rest of the word, but it was enough for rage and sorrow to flood Mycroft. For the first time in his life he wanted to react with pure emotion and adrenaline, disregarding reason altogether.

          “Gregory I would _never_ —you know you are my entire _world_ , don’t you?” Mycroft went cold, thinking of his life before this wonderful, annoying, loving man had come into it. His arms shook as he held him tight, heart breaking at the anguish in the barking sobs racking Gregory’s frame. Gregson was dead, absolutely professionally and socially _dead_. If it would not have drawn unwanted attention, Mycroft would have considered actual murder. But he couldn’t worry about that now…now he had something far more important—some _one_ far more important. “Sweetheart, please, please don’t cry…I know he’s upset you, but please calm down. For the baby, if not for me.”

          Mycroft managed to get him to sit on the built-in bench, and knelt on the unforgiving tile in front of him, stroking his arms and face, “I hope it goes without saying that for me to abandon you for any reason is _unthinkable_ —hideous. I cannot go back to before—to life without you.” To his distress, Mycroft felt the scald of tears burning his eyes, a tightness in his throat which he could not swallow down. Trying to speak, his voice cracked, “Don’t let his ugliness c-come between us, please.”

          It was his own failing composure which seemed to save Gregory, who pulled him close and pressed kisses on his cheek and squeezed the breath out of him. “Oh God, Myc, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have listened to him…only, I’m so sick of being stuck at home and sometimes I get lonely, and lately…” he sighed shakily, “it seems like you’re hardly ever at home. Your hours are late even for you…and then you missed today, and I just…started thinking stupid things.”

          “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you, Gregory, I hope you know that,” Mycroft said, trying to hide a grimace as he shifted on his aching knees. “Duty has called me quite fiercely of late, but I assure you it wasn’t choice which kept me from you.”

          “Come up off of that hard floor, you idiot.” Gregory helped him stand, wincing in sympathy, “God, your knees are going to be killing you come morning—take a naproxen when we get out, yeah?”

          “First I’ve got to finish bathing you,” Mycroft said, rubbing his knees. “It’s my husbandly duty—or will be as soon as you marry me.”

          “Not marrying you from bed,” Gregory said tartly, resuming rubbing his fingers in soothing circles in Mycroft’s hair, smiling shyly. He looked embarrassed at his breakdown, but Mycroft could only be grateful he had been here to stem his fears. He was so full of emotion that he peppered Gregory’s face with a dozen small kisses, smiling against his lips until he heard his husky laugh.

          “As soon as you’re released from the hospital upon delivery of our little banana—”

          “—Wee carrot—”

          “Wee carrot—I’m whisking you off to the Registry office, wedding plans be damned.” Mycroft picked up the bath sponge and drizzled it liberally with ginger and white tea bath gel. He delighted in the return of scented bath products to their routine—in the early, early days of Gregory’s pregnancy, the smell of nearly everything had turned him green with nausea.

          “Oi,” Gregory slapped at him in mock outrage, “Not while I’m carrying extra baby weight you aren’t!” He tipped Mycroft’s head back to rinse out the shampoo. “Got to look good in our wedding snaps, don’t I? Plus you promised me a honeymoon in the Maldives and I want to be able to wear a Speedo.”

          “Good lord, you’re going to make me wait until the child’s off to school and you’ve finally shifted an extra ten pounds, aren’t you?” Mycroft smirked only to give a gargled yowl as Gregory pushed his head back under the shower spray and half drowned him. It was worth it to hear his beloved’s laughter, however, after the recent breakdown.

          They finished their ablutions in high good humour, upset very nearly forgotten. Mycroft, determined to shower his love in affection, pushed his rage to the back of his mind; now was not the time to plot revenge. Now was the time to make sure Gregory knew how very loved and wanted he was.

          “God, I miss sex,” Gregory sighed as Mycroft dried him tenderly with the oversized bath sheet, “It’s going to be ages until we can make love.”

          “There are other things we can enjoy,” Mycroft murmured, chasing an errant droplet with a corner of the towel and bending his head to kiss the back of Gregory’s shoulder, “Why don’t you come to bed and let me show you?”

          Once more in their bed, Gregory stretched out and wriggled deep into the fresh bedding Mycroft had smoothed out before their shower, “Oh I love to be clean against clean sheets!” He smiled at Mycroft, held out his arms, “Come here and tell me what you had in mind, Mr Holmes.”

          “Well, Mr Lestrade, I’d rather show you,” Mycroft retorted, reaching into the bedside drawer for the bottle of massage oil he had stashed there. He smiled, “Would you like me to start with your chest and feet first, or your back and legs?”

          “Talk dirty to me, Mr Holmes,” Gregory groaned, rolling onto his side and peeking back at Mycroft with big eyes, “I do love the sound of your posh voice.”

          In the act of pouring oil into his hands, Mycroft paused, “Will this be too arousing, darling?”

          “Possibly,” Gregory admitted, “but I miss your touch. Ignoring an erection won’t kill me.”

          “See that it doesn’t,” Mycroft reproved, moving to smooth his hands over Gregory’s back, “I’ve got plans for a few months from now, and how we can spend all those neglected erections.”

          Gregory shivered pleasantly at the touch of his hands, humming a bit, “God, that feels wonderful, love.”

          “That is rather the point,” Mycroft laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek. He soon lost himself in the sweep of his hands over Gregory’s back, and down over his toothsome buttocks—where he was afraid to linger for too long for both their sakes—and down the long thighs and the tense calves. Rather than risk disturbing any possible bloodclots, Mycroft didn’t press deeply, instead limiting himself to light touches, long presses and gentle caressing of the beloved body. “Are you ready to roll onto your back?” he asked at last, a bit dizzy from the blood pooling insistently in his groin.

          Gregory appeared to be in much the same condition when he rolled over, biting his lip and looking shyly alluring, his cock pink and proud between his thighs. “Your hands felt amazing, gorgeous, I couldn’t help but get hard.”

          The desire to reach out and touch him, grasp the well-remembered flesh, smooth his oily thumb over the head, give a delicious drag downward with his palm, pulling the thin silk of Gregory’s foreskin down in the way that drove him mad was nearly impossible to deny. Mycroft reminded himself that he was a very mature, sensible and responsible adult. Which worked until Gregory took his hand and put it on the aforementioned flesh and gasped, “Touch me love, please…please Mycroft, I need to feel you.”

          Shuddering, Mycroft let his fingers wrap around the stiff prick which jerked lightly in eagerness, “Gregory…we shouldn’t…”

          “I’m nearly there anyway,” he said softly, eyes huge and dark and beseeching. He ran his hand over Mycroft’s thigh, fingers questing up until they touched the straining length that hung too heavy to stand upright against Mycroft’s belly. “Touch me, beautiful, please…it’s been so long…”

          “You are an incubus, surely,” Mycroft murmured, hand moving against his will. His hips pushed forward into the loose circle of Gregory’s grip, gasping out a curse. It _had_ been a long time, and he wouldn’t last any time at all. Gaze tangled with his lover’s, Mycroft set up a gentle rhythm, wrist loose, grip firm, as he rocked into Gregory’s embrace, his own hand sliding slickly along Gregory’s cock. Tingles were already spreading from the small of his back, and he hoped he’d manage to last until after Gregory succumbed.

          “Y-yes…” Gregory gasped, hips rising off the mattress, the small curve of his belly looking ripe and fecund against the soft peach sheets which Myroft had purchased in an attempt to inspire happiness in his darling’s surroundings. The sight of this evidence of his virility had been rather dazzling before, but suddenly Mycroft felt nearly dizzy with lust. It was incredibly arousing, knowing he’d made this man pregnant, planted his seed in his belly and even now their child was growing. _Their_ child, a wondrous creation which was the product of their love and a reminder of the passion which they inspired in one another.

          Mycroft leaned over Gregory, smiling, eyes damp with the threat of tears, and licked Gregory’s parted lips, drinking in his gasp as they stroked and tugged at one another. The muscles in his belly clenched and the pressure was building, signaling an imminent explosion. He firmed his jaw and concentrated on the softly writhing figure on the bed, the restless hand gripping the sheets. Mycroft bit Gregory’s lower lip as he firmly brushed the sharp pout of his increasingly sensitive nipple, and was rewarded with a whimper, followed by the gasp of his name.

          “Myyyyc…”

          “Will you come for me, sweetheart?” Mycroft asked, hand gently and inexorably unraveling Gregory’s composure; his own he clung to as firmly as possible, trying to resist the urge to thrust himself to completion in the circle of Gregory’s hand. “Say yes…”

          “Yes…. _yes_ …Myc, oh God,” Gregory’s head fell heavily back against the pillow, his hairline damp with sweat, his darkened eyes were desperate, “ _Myc!_ ”

          His hand left the sheets and dropped to squeeze his balls as he came, and Mycroft kept his hand moving smoothly as the soft jerk and splatter of Gregory’s release spilled over his hand. Having held off too long, his own climax was unstoppable at that point, and when Gregory’s hand squeezed thoughtlessly around his length, Mycroft groaned into the sweaty column of his lover’s throat and spent himself against Gregory’s thigh. For a dizzy moment he hung panting over him, aware of the buzz of his nerve endings, the numbness of his toes and the smell of salt, a trace of ammonia, and the cloying almond scent of the massage oil.

          “Hold me,” Gregory said simply, eyes closed, face beatific. Mycroft was fairly certain his own face looked the same. He put a bit of effort into it—his extremities currently feeling approximately as firm as custard—and rolled Gregory onto his side and slid into the bit of space behind him.

          “Are you alright?” Mycroft asked sleepily, wiping his hand on the sheets—not so fresh now—before cradling the baby bump that had so seduced him a few moments before. He felt vaguely disturbed at his own arousal from such a thing, but was too relaxed to worry excessively.

          “Stop worrying, Myc, that did me a world of good,” Gregory said firmly, snuggling back into his arms and patting the hand on his belly.

          “You’re so beautiful when you come,” Mycroft whispered, kissing Gregory’s ear, which was all he could reach at this point. Anything else would have required more effort than he could currently expect of his liquefied muscles. “I love you so much.”

          “Love you, Myc…my gorgeous lover.” Gregory’s voice was fading, sleep already pulling him away.

          “Fiancé, if you please,” Mycroft smiled, holding him tightly. In just a moment he would rise and clean them both, turn off the lights and make sure Gregory was tucked in against drafts. But for now he wanted to appreciate the perfection of life.

 

******

 

          “Sally brought me another load of books the other day, did I tell you?” Gregory called happily from the wingchair near the bedroom window. He smiled over his shoulder at Mycroft, who was remaking the bed. The last of the sunset tinted his plump face (bedrest and an increased appetite had given him a tiny bit of pudge which Dr Hasbani said was within the healthy range, and which Mycroft found surprisingly stirring), and his happy smile was heart-lifting.  “I’ve not read so many books in my life as I have in the last six months!”

          “Oh? And what has Inspector Donovan brought for you this time?” Mycroft grunted slightly as he struggled to get the fitted sheet under the corner of the king size mattress. The cleaners were allowed in to keep the room dust-free and fresh, but he maintained the changing of their bed linen himself; there was only so much about their intimate life the staff needed to know. Although nowadays it was mostly the rare instance of him allowing Gregory to pleasure him with his hands or mouth, or Gregory’s carelessly dropped snacks which soiled the sheets.

          It had been a chore which had gone undone in the last three days, while he was unavoidably abroad. The constant worry he had carried, lest something happened to Gregory or the baby whilst he was away, had only eased when he came in and found him guiltily eating truffles and absorbed in a novel.

          “Mostly horror stories. I’ve seen all the Dracula and Frankenstein movies, of course, but never read any of the books.”

          “’Dracula’ is a treat,” Mycroft commented, beginning the laborious process of getting the flat sheet to hang evenly. “I found ‘Frankenstein’ to be rather dry and long-winded, honestly. You’ll have to let me know your opinion of it.”

          “I’m about halfway through ‘Dracula’ now!” Gregory enthused, “It’s different from the movie, but I like it so far.”

          “Perhaps after dinner we can adjourn to the home theatre and watch _Dracula_ ,” Mycroft offered, “I have both the 1931 version with Lugosi, as well as all of the Hammer Horror films.”

          “That’d be great, Myc,” Gregory agreed, smiling at him as one hand rubbed the dome of his belly. Their daughter was increasing in size, and Gregory’s movements had grown slower with the changes to his center of gravity. Mycroft made a mental note to rub his belly with Tummy Butter and assure Gregory (quite truthfully) that he found him insanely desirable. There hadn’t been a repeat of their last sexual encounter, although Gregory was more than generous in trying to instigate hand jobs and oral sex for Mycroft. He was insistent that he didn’t mind it being one-sided, but Mycroft felt selfish taking his pleasure without reciprocation, and so it was rare that he agreed. Usually only when it had been too long and his self-control was unraveled. “We can snuggle up and watch a scary movie and then neck.”

          “There will be no necking,” Mycroft said, trying and failing to sound severe.

          “Damn! Will there at least be popcorn?” Gregory’s grin, when he glanced at him, was cheekiness personified.

          “Gregory Francis Lestrade! You just ate a box of truffles and dinner is in but an hour. You do not need popcorn.”

          Hurt welled in his eyes, and Mycroft crumbled. “Am I getting too fat, Mycroft, is that it?”

          “Darling, of course not! I think you’re beautiful,” Mycroft hurried to kneel next to Gregory’s chair and hug him, “But you have to think about your health and that of Eugenie—”

          “—Janey—”

          “—because as the doctor said,” Mycroft continued, nobly ignoring the salvo, “Your weight isn’t a problem, but if you gain too much more, it will place a stress on you both.”

          “I just…I have so few pleasures,” Gregory sighed, ducking his head and playing with the cuff of Mycroft’s shirt, “I’m going to go mad if I have to spend another three months in here—lovely as the bedroom is, Mycroft, I’m getting sick of the sight of it—and the idea of spending a night watching movies…with my handsome man…and a bowl of popcorn…it sounded like when we used to date.” His sigh was immense, and tragic.

          “Perhaps a _small_ bowl,” Mycroft hedged, knowing he was a weakling. It was nearly impossible to deny the man anything. Particularly when he looked at him with puppy eyes and a softly trembling mouth.

          Gregory’s happy smile was blinding, “Oh love, you are so good to me!” He hugged him happily, and Mycroft hugged him back, suspecting that he’d been played, but too proud to pursue it.

 

******

 

          “Vladimira,” Gregory announced a few nights later, looking up from his tablet. He smiled at Mycroft, who was scowling over his reading glasses at his laptop. He’d had to bring work home with him, but with Anthea’s help he was determined to shave some time off of his work days so he could spend it with Gregory.

          “Pardon?” Mycroft bought time with absent-mindedness. He had heard him perfectly well the first time. Please let Gregory not be about to launch into another enthusiastic replay of some inane daytime program he’d become far too invested in.

          “For the baby,” Gregory explained, eyes bright. “You wanted something distinctive and noble, I’m thinking Vladimira—it means the ‘great and peaceful ruler,’ pretty neat, huh? It works, since now doubt our girl will follow in her papa’s footsteps and run the country one day.” Gregory looked inordinately proud of the imagined accomplishments of a child not yet born.

          With a silent bid for patience, Mycroft spoke shortly, “No.”

          “What do you mean, no?” If Gregory’s narrowed eyes indicated anything, it was that his tone had not been well-received.

          “Was I too harsh? I’m sorry, I meant no, my love.” Mycroft smiled nicely. “We are not naming my daughter _Vladimira_.” As the words left his mouth he heard the rather supercilious tone that he’d long since ceased to use with Gregory and his stomach dropped uneasily.

          Gone was the softly smiling man who had been nestled against his side. In his place was the hard-jawed Inspector Lestrade. “Oh, _your_ daughter, is she? How convenient that she is yours when it comes to naming her, but _I’m_ the one stuck in this bed for bloody _months_. I’ve _suffered_ , Mycroft, I have sacrificed for this baby and I should get a say in her name!”

          “Gregory…calm yourself,” Mycroft soothed, reaching out a propitiating hand. He was alarmed at the heightened colour in his fiancé’s face, and in the back of his mind the worry that Gregory’s blood pressure might be rising dangerously nagged.

          It was the wrong thing to say. “Get out!” Gregory hissed, swatting Mycroft’s hand away for all the world as though he were a riled cat. “Take your twice-damned laptop and your snooty tone and go sleep in the guest bed.” He flounced onto his side, back a wall of bristling anger aimed toward Mycroft. “I refuse to share a bed with you when you’re being a twat.”

          “Gregory,” Mycroft said in astonishment. Rarely had he seen this level of anger from his lover, and certainly never directed at him. Tucking away his hurt, he reached out and touched his elbow softly, “My dear…please don’t be this way.”

          “Goodnight,” Gregory said coldly.

          “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mycroft said helplessly, scooting to the edge of the mattress, slowly, as he was hoping for a reprieve. He bit his lip as he thought of the anger and the abruptness with which he’d been shut out. This wasn’t how things went at all…normally he was the one who reacted poorly and Gregory was the one who settled things down and pulled him into a hug. There was no quarter to be given tonight, it appeared. He dangled his legs off the bed, hesitated, “Do you require anything before—”

          “I’m fine.”

          “O-oh…okay. Very well.” Mycroft sadly picked up his maligned laptop, although he knew he would be getting no work done tonight. Turning, he felt his chest heave at the sight of Gregory turned away from him, shutting him out. Aching at the anger lying between them, he longed to reach out; pride, and concern for Gregory’s well-being, stopped him. Better not to upset him any further when he was meant to be resting and avoiding stress. Still, he could not help the quaver in his voice when he said, “G-goodnight, my love.”

          Afraid of tripping since he could scarcely see for the blurriness of his stinging eyes, Mycroft nevertheless hurried toward the door, desperate to get away before a sob escaped him. What on earth was wrong with him? He never reacted so emotionally. But then, fights between them were rare, and he was feeling especially hurt—he had been so patient, so fore-bearing over the last five months, trying to be as tender and loving as his Gregory deserved—and in one moment of disagreement over a silly name he was cast out.

          The soft sound of his name stopped his hasty retreat, but Mycroft remained facing away from the bed, hiding his damp cheeks, “Yes?”

          Rustling bedclothes indicated movement, and then he heard the soft hush of Gregory’s footsteps behind him. Hastily, surreptitiously, Mycroft wiped at his cheeks. “Oh Myc,” Gregory sighed, reaching out, warm hand rubbing his back and turning him toward him. His face was crimped with worry and regret, and Mycroft managed to keep from letting out a broken sob, but it was a near thing. “Sweetheart,” Gregory said, stepping in and pulling him as close as his belly allowed, “Don’t cry…”

          Even Mycroft wasn’t sure what he babbled into Gregory’s t-shirt clad shoulder, but his lover’s arms felt wonderful wrapped around him, and the soft shushing was comforting. “It’s alright,” Gregory kept murmuring, “Hush, love.”

          “I’m sorry,” Mycroft gasped, rubbing his dripping nose shamelessly against Gregory’s t-shirt; he would have burrowed into him and curled up tight if he could have. His hands gripped the back of Gregory’s tatty toweling robe too tightly, “I hate upsetting you...”

          “No, I’m sorry—I lost my temper and acted like a dick. It’s true, I am going a bit mad in here, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. And over a name…”

          “The name of our child is important,” Mycroft cleared his throat and wished desperately for a handkerchief, “but we are perhaps too emotional to discuss it at this time.” Mycroft raised his head and looked tentatively into Gregory’s face. He was greeted with a rueful smile and soft eyes. “Shall we table the discussion until we’ve both had a good night’s sleep and are less emotional?”

          “Very wise,” Gregory commended, kissing him on the nose and smiling softly, “Come back to bed and let’s try for some sleep, eh?” He tugged at his hand, “We’re both exhausted and weepy and I can’t sleep when you’re not here.”

          “We can’t have that,” Mycroft said, gallantly helping his very pregnant darling into the bed, and settling the covers over him. He joined him in bed and they met in the middle of the mattress, rolling into one another’s arms and cuddling. “I don’t have any early meetings, how would you feel about breakfast on the terrace?” He curled protectively around Gregory’s belly and laid his ear over the steady thrum of Gregory’s heart, soothed by the closeness and the reassuringly robust sound of his lover’s blood rushing in and out of the healthy organ.

          “That sounds wonderful,” Gregory sighed, tucking Mycroft’s head under his chin and rubbing his back, “It feels like years since I’ve been outside.” He yawned, “I hope the weather cooperates.”

          “It shall, or it will have me to deal with,” Mycroft promised, earning him a sleepy chuckle.

 

******

 

          “Alexa, play ‘Sharp Dressed Man,’” Gregory called out playfully as Mycroft approached the open door of the sunny lounge. It was four o’clock, and thanks to a rigorous adherence to his schedule, and Anthea’s willing assistance in shuttling time wasters out of his presence, Mycroft had managed for the third day in a row to be home in time for tea.

          The sun was shining, as if to set a cap on his happiness, and Gregory, a bit pale and puffy, but smiling, was propped in the chaise longue Mycroft had had moved from the study to the French windows in the lounge which led out into the private back garden. Shortly after The Vladimira Incident Mycroft had enlisted his staff’s assistance in removing unnecessary furniture from the lounge, setting up a bed from one of the guest suites along with several bookcases and comfy chairs, and had established it as their temporary bedroom. Gregory was delighted with the new view, and happy to be closer to the action—even if the ‘action’ was merely that of the day cleaners going about their tasks, or watching the landscaping firm come in weekly to tend to the lawns and greenery.

          Sally Donovan, seated in one of the aforementioned comfy chairs, looked up with a distinct lack of the vaguely uneasy smile with which she normally greeted him. Her disapproval of their relationship had never quite waned, although they had been happily cohabiting for years. It was somewhat understandable that her mistrust and dislike of Sherlock should, to some extent, colour her views of him, but Mycroft had grown rather tired of being regarded as an ogre. He was mildly pleased (alright, quite ‘chuffed’ as Gregory would say) to see a distinct warming in her manner these last few weeks.

          As music blared out of the speakers, Mycroft felt himself go red, but raised his chin at his husband’s foolishness and attempted to traverse the room with a smidgen of dignity. Miss Donovan was smiling, and looking out the window, giving them a moment of relative privacy in which to greet one another. Mycroft would have behaved with a degree of decorum, but Gregory pulled him in and gave him a thorough kiss and stage whispered, “You look fucking gorgeous, gorgeous.”

          “Er,” said Mycroft, smoothing needlessly at his tie. He had dressed early this morning with an eye to Gregory’s particular love for this glen plaid suit, periwinkle shirt and the violet and gray tie. “Miss Donovan, a pleasure.”

          “Mr—Mycroft,” she said, looking back at him and smiling politely. Her eyes were bright, and he sighed soundlessly, knowing that she was probably going to tease Gregory about this upon his eventual return to NSY. She was a loyal and good-hearted ally for his husband, however, and Mycroft couldn’t exactly begrudge her a little fun at his expense.

          “Sal dropped by to say hello and I asked her to stay to tea—you don’t mind do you, love?”

          As he could hardly say no without appearing ungracious, Mycroft smoothly assured them both that he’d like nothing more. Tea, as it turned out, was quite pleasant, and Miss Donovan, not being a complete fool, left soon after.

          “How was your day?” Gregory asked, sipping at his caffeine free herbal tea with little pleasure. He eyed the finger sandwiches and Mycroft handed him a tomato and cream cheese on freshly baked bread and took one for himself. He’d skipped lunch—alright, and breakfast as well—in order to shorten his day, and he ate the sandwich in a most uncharacteristic two bites.

          “The usual: interminable meetings and averting socio-political disasters,” Mycroft said dryly, seating himself on the end of the chaise longue and rubbing one of Gregory’s socked feet absently. “I’m much more interested in yours.”

          “Lots of reading and daytime telly,” He nudged Mycroft’s hand with his toes, “John came by for lunch and stayed for a while, which was nice. It was almost like old times, except no ale.”

          “I should jolly well hope not,” Mycroft muttered. “That was nice of Doctor Watson to pay you a visit.” He smiled blandly, “And when he was just here the other day as well.”

          “He’s hardly going to say no when you ask him to drop in every week, now is he?”

          “He swore he wouldn’t—” Mycroft snapped his mouth shut at Gregory’s triumphant expression. “Damn.”

          “I knew you had asked everyone to start dropping by more!” But Gregory was smiling, not upset.

          “I wanted you to get your rest, before,” Mycroft explained, switching to Gregory’s other foot and smiling at his happy groan, “but you were getting cabin fever and I was worried about you being too isolated. I told everyone that you’d much appreciate visits—as long as they don’t tire you.”

          “Not tiring at all, love. It’s been great getting to see more of everyone.” Gregory laughed, “Although I’ve noticed a distinct lack of Sherlock. Hard to believe I actually miss the berk.” He looked a bit wistful, smoothing his hand over his big belly, “I suppose he’s no time for his boring brother-in-law, all domestic and waddly in my little pregnancy nest.”

          “I forbade him from coming unsupervised,” Mycroft protested dryly, “and he was so incensed at my lack of trust that he vowed not to come until I personally apologize and beg him to come.”

          Gregory bit his lip, eyes positively dewy with supplication.

          “No.” Mycroft put his foot down, “I won’t beg.”

          “Myc…”

          “No. Absolutely not.”

          “He’s your little brother…this is his niece.” Gregory folded his hands on his belly and gave Mycroft a stern look, “Family is important, Myc. Call him.”

          “It’s late.”

          “It’s half past five,” Gregory said in exasperation. “Call him.”

          “Tomorrow perhaps—”

          “Myc.”

          Mycroft pulled the phone from his pocket, “Fine. I’ll call him. But I’m doing it in private. You shouldn’t have to see the disgusting display I’m going to be forced to put on.”

          Gregory laughed and threw a pillow at him, “Go _on_ , Myc. Or there’ll be no kisses for you tonight!”

 

******

 

          “Carefully now, Rosie, love,” John cautioned, hovering as his five year old sat straight and tall in the armchair, her skinny arms out to receive her blanket-wrapped cousin. “You have to keep Greer’s head supported all the time, alright? And be gentle, she’s easily bruised.”

          “Like a fresh peach,” Gregory said tenderly, laying his baby in Rosie’s lap and smiling at them. “And just as sweet.”

          “Baby,” Rosie said in soft awe, scarcely moving lest she jolt the tiny infant in her arms. She looked up at Gregory, “Greer’s a funny name.”

          “Rosamunde!” John protested, embarrassed.

          “It’s a bit out of fashion, I suppose,” Gregory agreed, not bothered, “But it’s Scottish, like your papa and uncle Mycroft’s side of the family—the Holmes side, I mean— and it’s lovely. It means alert, and watchful.” He grinned up at Mycroft, “Suitable, considering who her papa is.”

          “And it’s the female form of Gregory,” Sherlock drawled from where he loomed next to the unlit fireplace, stubbornly wearing his Belstaff despite the unseasonably warm late May day.

          “What?” Gregory asked in bafflement as Mycroft snapped, “Sherlock!”

          Satisfied at the trouble he’d stirred up, his younger brother subsided, smirking. Mycroft suppressed a sigh; Sherlock always was difficult when not the center of attention.

          “Mycroft…” Gregory began warningly. “I suppose you knew that as well?”

          “I…may have done.” He smiled, “But you were happy with the name, as was I, and it was one we could both agree on.”

          “Sneaky,” was all Gregory said, but he blew Mycroft a kiss.

          “Heard you two are off for—was it Tahiti?” John asked, “As soon as this one’s three months old.”

          “Yeah,” Gregory agreed, “We can’t wait any longer, we’re getting married at the end of July. Moved it up from September.” He smiled happily, nodding his head at Mycroft, “This one threw money at everyone involved to get it rescheduled. That way we can bring Greer and her nanny with us to The Maldives and be a nice, legal family unit.”

          “The Maldives for your sex holiday, brother, really?” Sherlock sneered, “How trite.”

          “Shut. Up. Sherlock.” John and Mycroft spoke in unison. John nodded at the oblivious Rosie, who was bouncing one of Greer’s tiny hands in her palm and whispering to the drowsy baby, “Little pitchers.”

          “Was not your own honeymoon spent in Paris?” Mycroft inquired archly, “The most romantic city in the world, Sherlock, really?”

          “Knock it off,” John said mildly, “It’s too happy a day for you two to begin fighting.”

          “John,” Gregory suggested, standing, “Let’s leave the children—all four of them—to their own devices and I’ll show you the gaming console I got.” He headed for the door out of the morning room, “Mycroft has top scores, the bastard—took him less than four days to figure out all the tricks and keep leveling up.”

          “Can’t believe he spent the whole last month of your pregnancy at home with you,” Mycroft heard John murmur as the two men disappeared down the hall. He moved across the room to be closer in case Rosie suddenly forgot that she was holding a real live human and tried to hop out of her chair.

          “You can relax,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his phone, “John was quite clear with her for the last several months that she was to be cautious and gentle. He’s been training her with a ‘life-like’ interactive doll.”

          “Still,” Mycroft couldn’t help but murmur, his eyes on his child. The child he never would have believed he would have, but a few years ago. Both Gregory and Greer were unanticipated and unplanned, and yet so dearly, wholeheartedly loved.

          “I’ve also had a good talk with her,” Sherlock added, glancing from his phone to his step-daughter, who was apparently telling her cousin one of the (much-redacted) tales from John’s recently published book, ‘The Adventures of Holmes and Watson.’ “I explained that since she and Greer are both only children, it’s all the more important that they form a close bond.” He glanced at Mycroft; it was a brief look, but it left Mycroft warmed with the unspoken sentiment. “She is the eldest, so she must be sure to be watchful of Greer.” He stepped closer, standing now at Mycroft’s side, “Although she also needs to recognize when it’s time to step back and let her make her own mistakes and learn from them.”

          “Sometimes a hard lesson to learn,” Mycroft said after discreetly clearing his throat. He was so damnably _emotional_ since his daughter’s arrival.

          “One we can help them recognize, I’m sure,” Sherlock said, bumping Mycroft’s shoulder briefly with his. “Come now, stop being maudlin and remind me again when I may expect your husband’s adequate presence at NSY? Donovan is about as useful as a pogo stick to a sufferer of hemorrhoids…”

 

******

 

          The candles in their jewel-bright votives flickered in the erratic gusts of wind borne in off the ocean; the filmy white drapery at the open windows billowed evocatively, and from the anachronistically modern iPod dock on the bedside table, romantic music swelled.

          Miles, Greer’s night-time nanny, had taken the three month old with him following the hour post-dinner which Mycroft and Gregory had spent with their daughter. It was their last day before returning home, and they’d asked not to be disturbed until morning, barring emergencies

          “This has been perfect, Myc,” Gregory sighed, fingers restlessly kneading Mycroft’s shoulders. “Every—ah—every day has been magical.”

          “Mmm,” Mycroft agreed, currently belly down between his husband’s thighs as he paid a rather spectacular amount of attention to his favourite mole on the inside of Gregory’s right thigh. “Have you enjoyed yourself, darling?” He smiled as the hot puff of his breath across Gregory’s saliva-damped skin wrought shivers from him.

          “So much,” Gregory sighed, sliding delicate fingers into Mycroft’s flourishing curls; Mycroft had given up trying to tame them in the face of sea winds and salt-water drenchings. “Christ, love, that beard will be the d-death of me!”

          The beard, which Gregory had cajoled him into growing during the month-long paternity leave Mycroft had taken, had made a special reappearance during their month-long honeymoon. Mycroft had never fancied himself a facial-hair sort of man, but Gregory had rapidly convinced him of the benefits. Most notably how incredibly sexy his husband found it.

          Smiling, he dragged the short, well-groomed and scruffy-soft red hair over the tender crease of Gregory’s thigh and nuzzled at his flushed, aching cock. Given the complete sexual abandon the two of them had given themselves over to during the last four weeks, it was wonder either of them had any reserves left. It had been a spectacularly wonderful honeymoon; the sex had been of the type, variety and duration which Mycroft imagined was gifted to randy teenagers—if they were particularly inventive and had impressive self-control.

          Gregory had had a hard time not limping, the first few days, and Mycroft had been sharply reminded, a time or two, that he was in his mid-forties; not that it hadn’t all been well worth it. That wasn’t what they were aiming for tonight, however. No, tonight was a soft flourish at the end of a very beautiful, sensual passage. “It’s been perfect for me as well,” Mycroft sighed, trailing a fingertip over Gregory’s perineum and smiling against the warmth of his inner thigh as he shivered.

          Opening his mouth, Mycroft softly rolled one of Gregory’s balls on his tongue, fingers stroking, kneading. The fingers in his hair tightened, the gasps grew sharper, more desperate, and he pulled his right hand away long enough to reach blindly for the nearly empty pump bottle of stupidly expensive lubrication which Gregory had gallantly taken responsibility for purchasing and transporting. Ensuring his fingers were nicely coated, Mycroft resumed his happy task.

          “You’re so beautiful in the candle light, love,” Gregory groaned softly, rolling his head ceaselessly on the crumpled pillow. “I can’t get enough of seeing you like—ah! Like this…” his voice trailed off as Mycroft gently worked slick fingers inside him. His train of thought apparently lost, Gregory reached out and cradled his face in one hand, turning Mycroft’s attention to his face. “I love you, beautiful.”

          “My love for you is boundless, Gregory Holmes-Lestrade,” Mycroft spoke softly, fingers stilling, eyes burning with joyful tears. He covered Gregory’s hand with his own, “You fill my days and nights with passion and happiness and wonder.” Eyes on his husband’s, Mycroft turned his face and pressed a hot, fervent kiss on Gregory’s palm.

          “Myc, Myc…” Gregory tugged gently, urgently, at his hair, “Come kiss me, please…I want you close.”

          “I am close,” Mycroft said naughtily, flashing a wicked smile as he held Gregory’s gaze and lowered his lips to give the head of his impatient, hopeful cock a smooth kiss, letting his lips part, letting his tongue savour the warm, salty flesh of his husband.

          Wordlessly, Gregory called out, voice hoarse, his hips lifting to seek more contact. Finally he groaned, “You _know_ that’s not what I mean, you horrible beast of a man.”

          Taking pity on him (and on his own more than ready erection), Mycroft crawled sinuously up the bed, nudging Gregory’s thighs wide, one hand holding him over his supine form as the other urged his leg up over his hip. “Beastly, am I?” Mycroft asked breathlessly, his prick nudging the heated entrance to his husband’s body; he sank into him an inch, two, watching to make sure Gregory was comfortable. Having spent ages making sure Gregory was more than ready meant that they slid into an embrace with gentleness and ease, only Mycroft’s love and caution urging slow movements. Mycroft pressed his face against Gregory’s sweat-glazed neck and kissed his collarbone, turned his head and licked his neck, smiling, “Alright?”

          “Mmm…” Gregory moaned agreeably, arms and legs pulling him closer, as if he would crawl inside Mycroft if he were able. “Sweetheart, yes…”

          Rocking slowly, Mycroft drew back enough so he could see Gregory’s face, pressing small, sweet kisses on his mouth, “My love,” he panted softly, “I want you to know…that despite all our worries, this last year has been one of the happiest of my life…” He slid one hand under Gregory’s back, pressing their chests closer together, delighting in the strong, certain beat of his heart, as the other hand stroked his husband’s damp face, “You’ve given me your love, your heart…a family.” He gasped as Gregory tugged his hips closer with one strong leg, “Oh love…”

          Gregory spoke his name in a low voice, wrapping urgent arms around him and holding him close as they kissed, so close there was scarcely room for Mycroft to move. He pulsed softly inside his husband, tongues tangling with greed and skill. Finally they broke apart, gasping. “Mycroft…I love…you…” His breath was ragged, “ _God_ , you’re killing me, gorgeous!”

          “We can’t have that,” Mycroft stilled his hips, drawing in a rough breath. “I’ll just…stop…sh-shall I?” Please, dear Lord, don’t ask him to stop!

          “Don’t you fucking dare,” Gregory warned.

          Mycroft suggested he make up his mind, but his saucy words were cut off mid-way by the clench of internal muscles which left him lightheaded. Aware he was making less and less sense, he gave off trying to talk, and instead happily employed his mouth with kissing the smiles which kept appearing on Gregory’s mouth. The desire he felt was coiling tighter in his groin, but he was unwilling to end it too soon.

          “Wha—?” Gregory gasped, when Mycroft stilled and then slipped out of him.

          Hanging over him, chest slick, face dripping sweat, Mycroft shook his head wordlessly. At Gregory’s slightly worried inquiry as to whether or not he was alright, Mycroft nodded. “Give me a…minute…” he suggested, lying between his husband’s thighs, swollen member nudging hotly at Gregory’s slick buttocks.

          “Too close?”

          He nodded, happy to lie for a moment with his head on Gregory’s chest, loving the familiar beat of his heart. He smoothed his hands up Gregory’s sides, grinned at the ticklish wriggle that earned him, and hooked both hands under his shoulder blades and up around the top of his shoulders. With a surge, he slid back inside, choking off a cry and taking up a more demanding rhythm.

          Despite the apparent urgency of his movements, Mycroft was more in control now, and he let his forehead press against Gregory’s as they rocked together. Fingernails left a blazing trail down his back and Gregory’s eyes appeared nearly black as Mycroft pulled nearly out and thrust back home; warning tingles sent alarms through his groin, the small of his back, and Mycroft slowed once more.

          “Killer!” Gregory rasped, digging painful fingers into his buttocks and hauling him closer. “Myc…please…”

          “What…darling?”

          The love and lust in his eyes was dazzling. “Come inside…me…” Gregory licked his sweaty cheek, moaned, heartfelt, “I want to feel you inside me.”

          A shudder gripped Mycroft, and he closed his eyes, shaking. The very sound their bodies made drove him mad, and the smell of the sea, hot wax, and the heady, pungent smell of sex was ramping up his eagerness and eroding his composure. Keeping their bodies close together Mycroft let go of self-control and snapped his hips with a sexual need fed by the last four weeks. Gregory’s moans and half-realized words spurred him on, and Mycroft, unable to hold off any longer, slipped one hand between them and with light, rapid motions, stroked Gregory’s cock until the hips beneath him tried in vain to arch.

          Unwilling to stop, and knowing from experience just what Gregory needed, Mycroft slowed his touch, grasped him in long, firm strokes and tugged lightly at the crown until rasping cries and the hot release coating his hand rewarded him. When he became too sensitive, Gregory jerked from his firm touch, and Mycroft stilled his hand, bringing it out to press against the mattress as he pumped into his husband with short, quick thrusts. The sight and sound of Gregory orgasming always pushed him too close to the edge, and Mycroft rarely lasted long after Gregory climaxed. Hard hands grasping his buttocks, and a pair of lips latching onto his throat finished him, and Mycroft came, shaking as he tried to keep from collapsing.

          His husband would have none of it, however, and pulled him close, wrapping him in loving arms as he trembled in the aftermath. It was the tender lips on his forehead, the amused, loving whisper inquiring if he was still alive, the octopus-like embrace which made the moment as bliss-inspiring as the climax. Eventually they parted long enough for Mycroft to fetch damp flannels, and bottles of cold juice, and then they stretched out in bed, lying on top of the covers so that the unending sea breezes could cool their sweaty bodies. “I need to blow out the candles,” Mycroft muttered, eyes closed as he let sweet orange juice trickle down his parched throat. “Damn.”

          “I’ve got ‘em,” Gregory countered, already sitting up.

          “No,” Mycroft made an aborted movement, spine feeling less than dependable. “Gregory—”

          “Shush,” he was told, and the smile he received was loving, “You’ve spent the last nine months and then some waiting on me hand and foot…let me do this one thing, yeah?”

          “Hmm,” Mycroft mumbled non-committally, screwing the top back on his empty bottle and debating whether or not he should get under the sheet at least.

          “I’m serious,” Gregory lectured gently blowing out the last candle and feeling his way to bed. “You deserve to have all that love and care lavished on you as well, Myc.” He climbed into bed and took Mycroft’s formless worry about the sheets out of his hands by pulling it over them and snuggling his arms firmly around Mycroft. “No one in the world could be luckier in life than I am.”

          “You’re wrong,” Mycroft said firmly.

          “Nope. Not about this.” Gregory patted his back, “You’re a smart fellow, Myc, but about this I’m the expert.”

          “I hate,” Mycroft said, wriggling around to get comfortable, “to disagree with the father of my child, but you’re most assuredly wrong.” He reached out in the darkness to fumble one hand around Gregory’s jaw and pull him in for a goodnight kiss, “For _I_ am the luckiest man in the world—I’m married to you.”

 


End file.
